Visions of the Apocalypse
by moshpitstories
Summary: When Voldemort was resurrected and no one was able to stop him, the Day of Judgement came upon the land. Those without value were re-educated on their function in society, while the half-breeds and Muggles received their sentences. Long Live the Empire!
1. Prologue

An Excerpt from _The Glorious Revolution_:

With the rebirth of Our Great Lord Voldemort in the year 0 NBE, the United Kingdom finally became united in fact rather than name. Our Great Lord's power and vision swept through the weak shambles of magical Britain that preceded his great coming. Unification of the purebloods and the goal of furthering the inherent supremacy of his people led to swift acclamation of Our Great Lord's right to reign.

The few malcontents to the resuscitation of the wizard's dominance in life were gathered together and given opportunity to voice their concerns in the year 2 NBE. After an open and honest period of debate, every worthy magical citizen came to appreciate and enjoin with the vision from Our Great Lord. With all of magical Britain unified at last, the politics of the impure thieves were finally cast aside so that our world could be forged anew in the triumphant essence of the new vision.

The weak muggles and fettered half-breeds were isolated from the rest of the word, with Our Great Lord placing impenetrable barriers to prevent an exodus. These subject creatures were freed from their worries over food, employment, or material possessions. Once re-educated, they became productive servants of the New British Empire, governed wisely and justly by Our Great Lord's benevolence and edict.

With all industry bent to Our Great Lord's desire, the New British Empire reached supremacy amongst all peoples. In the remarkably short span of time leading to the year 7 NBE, re-education was complete and all lived according to the grand vision that founded The Glorious Revolution. At the end of the year 7 NBE, the protective isolation Our Great Lord established was to be removed. Our Great Lord declared that the light of our vision, the strength of our magic, and the power of unity would take The Glorious Revolution to the misguided masses who yearned for our guidance.

* * *

On 19-Aug-07, NBE, Our Great Lord faced the waters from Dover, and . . .

An Excerpt from _The Lost People_:

They say that these tomes are passed from keeper to keeper, for we must keep the truth alive. Each time a keeper must leave the enclave, a temporary keeper is chosen to guard the precious books we have, as well as these chronicles. I am Hermione Granger, and my predecessor – Percy Weasley – did not return. I am now the Keeper of the Chronicles, from this date forward: 17 Jul 2001, or the year 7 NBE.

While prior keepers have dutifully recorded the daily operations of our guerrilla campaign, I feel that they have omitted the broader context that we find ourselves in. After Voldemort's forced re-education camps were set up, the remainder of the magical world realized that Britain was soon to be lost. The fanatic fervor of Voldemort's followers presented a huge risk to the stability of the rest of the world. Isolation was the only option they could foresee as buying the time and space necessary to stop the advance of the so-called Glorious Revolution fuelling the New British Empire.

The most powerful wizards and witches, sentient magical creatures, and practicioners of the ancient magics were brought together in secret late in the year 1996. With a force of will and expense of magic that caused shockwaves throughout the Muggle world, every magical being in Britain was cut off from every other location in the world. No item containing magic – living or otherwise – could be transported across the Wards of Exclusion that the ICW raised.

With the blitzkrieg strike in 1998, over a span of three days came the fall of the Crown, parliament, and the combined weapons of the Muggle British army. With the addition of nuclear weapons and state-of-the-art Muggle military hardware falling into Voldemort's hands, the ICW was forced to take further steps. One week later, the Wards of Exclusion were extended to cover the transport of any molecule that was not a natural part of the ocean, the air, or the bedrock deep beneath Britain. A Fidelius Charm was used on a scale that had never been seen before, and killed fifty-three people involved in the casting. For all intents and purposes, Britain no longer existed.

We, the resistance, were given notice that the event was coming. We were given a choice to flee, or stay and fight. There was hope that the ICW would gather the forces necessary to re-take Britain from the violent, bloody rule of Voldemort and his followers. We chose to stay, for this is our home, and we were willing to fight for what was right. We chose not to take the easy way out.

There is no avenue of communication to the outside. We are completely isolated. As the years have gone by, many have given up hope. Each raid results in losses. We are hunted at all times. We still have dreams, but the hope of salvation no longer burns. We wander from secure enclave to secure enclave, but it is a losing proposition. We are losing, or rather, we are lost. We have become lost. We are the Lost People.

* * *

**_A/N:_**

_No beta was used or harmed in the production of this work._


	2. Fleeting Moments

An Excerpt from _The Glorious Revolution_:

Today, as always, our Glorious Revolution is a kinetic sculpture, constantly in motion while showing the beauty of unification. The Great Lord's wisdom is without bound, for he knows how to use the inferior and weak creatures around us to further our own aims. All rulers must deal with their subjects, and any decision naturally gives rise to those who are perceived to win, and those who are perceived to lose. Injured parties have resentment, and sufficient resentment leads to unproductive behavior for the New British Empire. Acceptance and productivity are requirements for participation in the Glorious Revolution.

In the Year 5 NBE, the muggle technology for monitoring others was fully adopted throughout the Empire. For those who are of the weakest class, lacking all magic, the enforced observation of all behavior through vision systems makes easy the identification of unproductive subjects. Those that possess magic naturally have full comprehension of the Scrying Orbs installed throughout the Empire, and are likewise monitored for the same unproductive warning signs.

Once unproductive workers are identified, re-education is applied to remove the source of injured views. Any party that loses a judgment is in de facto violation of Our Great Lord's will and wisdom. Repeated wrongs are invariably an indicator that the education program had failed for the individual worker in some fundamental manner. The Glorious Revolution's continued motion compels us to re-educate all workers until they are properly aligned with Our Great Lord's vision, becoming once more productive and accepting participants.

Attempts to thwart the destiny of the Glorious Revolution are dealt with by the Guards of the Revolution, the stalwart defenders of . . .

* * *

An Excerpt from _The Lost People_:

3-Nov-2001

It was a harbinger of The End when they did not return. We had less than a thousand people left in the entire Lost People enclaves, a mix of magical and muggle people working without hope or cessation. To lose a strike team of fifty people, including warriors, healers, and technologists, was a grievous blow. Not one of them returned from the ill-fated attack on a research facility run by Voldemort's people. The lightening raid on the night of samhain has become another stark reminder of how we have become abandoned by the world, and how futile our fight has become.

Kingsley Shacklebolt offered to step down as the leader of the Lost People, taking full blame for the consequences. The others – notably Neville Longbottom – refuted his offer, and pointed out that the information the strike team mission was based on had never been confirmed. Indeed, all that went had known the risks, and the lack of verification of the data, and had volunteered to go.

Had the strike been successful, we would have collected samples of the new tools they are using to track us down. The next generation of Scrying Orb has been rumored to contain muggle technology inside of it. We have also heard rumors of new weapons, blending the most dangerous creations of the muggle military with the palling facility of the killing curse. Kingsley had hoped that securing prototypes would allow us to devise means to counter them, and thus the major strike team had been assembled. While he is still our leader, even he now walks with stooped shoulders and I believe fear in his eye.

While I dare not directly ask any volunteers for any mission, I am convinced that the number of volunteers is a direct reflection of the increasingly bleak visions of the apocalypse coming. Kingsley had been hard pressed to decide which volunteers to send, given that only fifty slots were available in the team. Our numbers dwindle, there will be no more children, and the well has gone dry. What little hope may remain in some guarded breast is dying from lack of water, but I no longer believe any truly remains. If Kingsley has fallen prey to the perception of reality, there is nothing left for us to lean on in the dark hours.

As Keeper of the Chronicles, I officially list the names of the lost. Leader: Bill Weasley. Healers: Luna Lovegood, Orla Quirke. Fighting Team Leader: Nymphadora Tonks. Fighting Team: Ginny Weasley, Stan Shunpike, . . .

* * *

The hewn stone slab was the only constant in her mind. She had no idea of how long she had been held under the Cruciatus, but she had successfully worn holes through her clothes and armor from writhing within the restraints. She knew what her fate would be. They all knew what would come were they captured.

They had found the bodies of others.

When there were bodies to be found.

Somewhere between five seconds and an eternity after she had been placed on that rough slab, the interrogation had begun. The systematic attempts to break her mental shields, the snapping of bones, the cutting of flesh. Potions to keep her alive between sessions, and still they asked. She was not even sure what her name was half the time, or why she was there, but that mattered little.

She had to fight. She knew that. She would die in the end, for death was always there. Waiting. Watching. Whispering.

It was almost a relief when the torture stopped so they could move her body. What scraps of clothing she had left were discarded. The restraints were moved. Faces, hauntingly familiar, taunted her with words and gestures.

She thought she knew what was coming. Their use for her was over, so she was no longer of direct value. She would be handled far worse than the lowest half-breed.

They had found the bodies of others.

When there were bodies to be found.

She was left hanging, literally. Alone. In a dark room. They knew that she knew what was coming. In her lucid moments, she was terrified of it all. In the bulk of her time, she was eager for the release of this life. She had tried. She had failed. But she had lived.

Two of them came back. But they mercifully brought the light back, and she could see the clumps of her red hair hanging around her face. It was clumped and matted with other things, but she could see, and she was still alive. Their voices were confusing, but their actions as they began to disrobe were clear.

A dementor floated to the doorway, staying there. The unbearable cold caused her body to convulse, lacking any buffer from the evil in the room. She had no idea when the end would come, but there was her death. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.

She could hear the screams starting, the screams of her mother fighting Bellatrix Lestrange when Hogwarts was a safe haven.

Fighting to protect her daughter.

The laughter of the insane echoing as her mother's body exploded from a curse she had never heard.

She heard the voices of the Diary telling her how it was her fault that her mother was gone, that if she had not been there, her mother would still be out there, loving and caring and fighting and . . .

She came to consciousness slightly, only to see the dementor gone, as were the two naked men. The room was dim but not dark, and a new person was standing near her. Her brain was trying to wake up, but even it seemed to recognize the futility of bothering. Her body was numb from the cold, and she was unsure what had happened while she had been unconscious, locked in the visions the dementors brought.

They had found the bodies of others.

When there were bodies to be found.

In a swift motion, her new assailant released the chains holding her manacles to the wall. Her spine was unable to process the posture change by itself, and she found herself in a heap on the floor. Betrayed by her body, her captor dragged her back to the stone slab. He pulled something from the side of the table, one hand pushing her stomach to the ground, and used the other to unlock one of her legs.

It was too much to hope for, a flicker of heat at the base of her skull.

She was alive.

She kicked out viciously at the man that released her legs. She felt a fleeting moment of glee at the grunt of pain that escaped her captor. She would not go down without a fight, whether it be weapon, fist, foot, tooth, or nail. She would fight unto the end, for there was nothing left for her. Her sadistic pleasure in his pain ended abruptly when a blast of green light filled her vision. The waiting, the watching, the whispering was finally over.

* * *

**_A/N:_**

**_  
_** _No betas were involved in this work._


	3. Embrace of Death

The infinite susurration in my ears coupled to a warm, sweet breeze were the two tangible things that reached my brain first. These were rapidly followed by impressions of soft warmth, through cocooned textures, and I found myself in an alien surseance – a tranquil island that was so far beyond what my brain could ever recall experiencing that I knew at once that I was dead. Life was not about comfort, life offered no tranquility.

The last images kept flashing through my skull – fleeting moments of death eaters, torture, and a dementor. A brilliant green flash took it all away abruptly, the memories over. There, my logic asserts itself, is where I died.

And yet I remain calm, relaxed. I feel safe, something that I know I have not felt in many, many years. Of course, in death it is hard not to be safe or secure, for there is no outcome that I must fear. As the once-great Dumbledore told us before he was struck down, death is but the next great adventure.

To be honest, it is all but impossible for me not to feel like my next great adventure has to be an improvement. Either that or I was a real psychopath in my prior life to be paying a penance of this magnitude.

I was surprised when I finally opened my eyes. The room was bright, full of sunshine from the great open windows. I was in a king-sized, four-poster bed, wrapped in pristine white sheets and blankets and surrounded by dark cherry posts. The breeze was ceaselessly stirring translucent white netting material, encasing the bed in a false image of privacy. The entire scene struck me as absurdly idyllic, a fantasy conjured for my starting place in the adventure to come. The snort of bitter amusement at the stark contrast of the settings between life and death was as inevitable as it was not resisted, echoing about the room.

I rose up slowly, and parted the netting about the bed before standing. The large, smooth beige tiles on the floor were cool but not cold, and on contact with bare skin I could feel my toes curling. Three brisk paces took me to one of the giant windows, the doors thrown wide and a seaside vista filling my vision.

Dimly I realized that I was pain free, despite the immeasurable amount of torture I had been subjected to. The tears blurring my vision were for the beauty of the vista before me, and not for that added confirmation that the pains of mortality were past me. The air coming in was warm, smelling of the ocean in a way I could never recall from my past life. The sound of the waves smashing against the rocky outcropping at the edge of the land I could see reached my ears, and it was a discordant symphony that was all the sweeter for simply existing.

I wondered about those that I had left behind. I knew that Luna and Tonks had been captured at the same time as I had, but I had no idea of the others. Were they even now saying rites over empty graves? Or had our bodies been found, desecrated in every way possible after untold horrors were imparted before death came? I still yearned to be reunited with my parents, with my lost brothers, and I hoped deep inside that those reunions were now imminent since I had crossed the boundaries.

Standing there, looking out on a world that could not exist, I tried hard not to hate the people that abandoned us to fight alone. To not hate the ones that simply rolled over and accepted the dominion of evil. They amalgamated everything that was good and right and proper from the world, taking it all away, and left us with ashes. Promises of rescue and aid never came, and would never come for her or her friends now.

My parents had always told me that at the end of all things, you had to be able to accept the decisions you made in life before you passed on. To accept those decisions, they said, meant you had to consider the actions and words you spoke in every setting, and you had to forgive yourself. You had to embrace who you were at the time, and acknowledge the good things and the bad things equally, taking neither pride nor shame. Until you could balance yourself and truly accept yourself, you could never move peacefully into what would be waiting for you on the other side.

Standing there, hearing those waves, I could not imagine longing for my parents any more than I did at that time. I needed the comfort only they could provide, and their guidance to find some semblance of peace within myself. The fear was deep inside of me that I would be in that room for eternity, trying to come to grips with how I had lived my life. How could anyone living through such times _not_ feel horror for what had transpired?

When all of life lay in bitter, barren lumps around you, taking the moral high road was a luxury.

I wound up sitting in that windowsill, letting the sun warm my skin and dry my tears. I hated crying like that, but I was dead – what difference would it make? I could finally let go of the image everyone else had of me, the façade I felt compelled to adhere to. At that time, in that place, I could simply _be_.

I tried not to justify my acts to myself, but simply place them into a model of cause and effect. I doubted my ability to truly accept some of the things I had done in the heat of battle or in the quest for information, but I had to try. I have no idea how long I was sitting there, trying to order the events of my life into some kind of pattern. It could have been minutes, it could have been years. But I was suddenly aware that I was no longer alone in my contemplation.

They stood there, watching me watch them, and I knew. They were the ultimate confirmation that I was dead.

Their bodies were never found, like so many others.

Percy. Fred. George.

Watching me, saying nothing, simply waiting. I walked to them in no rush, for the dead need not keep track of time. But I knew that the next great adventure of Ginny Weasley had only just begun.

* * *

**_A/N:_**

_No betas were used in this work._


	4. Fractured Reality

_**Visions of the Apocalypse : Fractured Reality**_

"I hate this place."

"I don't believe you, of course," he replied calmly. The bitterness of her voice was nothing compared to what it had been only one month before, but it was still ringing in the room. "You hate the situation you find yourself in, but not _this_ place."

She sighed deeply, but did not leave her self-embrace whilst sitting upon the window sill, her eyes still looking out into the eternal and unending brilliance of a noon-time sun reflected across crashing waves. "I'd be happier if you wouldn't be right so much," she finally muttered. "They are back there, dying, and there's nothing we can do to help them."

"True," he said after a moment. She was not looking for pity or sympathy or comfort. She was still looking for revenge, for some way to get back to heal the ones she had left behind however involuntarily it may have happened. "But you have to remember that a time is coming when we _will_ be able to help them."

"Why not now?" It was the plaintive whine of a five year old, and he could see a vision of her at home, a skinned knee, crocodile tears from shock more than the trifling pain that being knocked down may have caused. "Why do we have to let them die if we can do something about it from this side?"

"Ginevra, the time is not right. We are not allowed to do more than we already are."

"I've never liked that name. I especially didn't like it when my brothers called me that, Percy. As happy as I am to see you, you're not winning any points from me right now."

He laughed for a moment, remembering the verbal or physical alterations that had dotted their family life. As much as he knew she was secretly longing for those days to be upon them again, he had to admit he did as well. There were so many things he would choose to do differently. "Noted, Ginny, noted."

"So who decides when the time is right?" Her anger was gone for the moment, even the bitterness was muted. A warm breeze billowed the white translucent curtains, the tang of salt sharp in the air.

"For you, or for us in general?"

She turned away from the embrasure, rising to her feet and joining him at the table. "It sounds like you're going to finally tell me something," she said while dropping gracefully into the chair opposite him. "I've only been asking for weeks. Unfortunately, I don't understand your question."

"Ginny," he hesitated briefly, wondering how he wound up with the task of covering the basics of her new reality. She did have other brothers here, ones she had been closer to when in that other place. "I will try to explain, but you'll need to be a little patient with me. All right?"

"All right."

Percy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The Mind Healers tell me you have started to make progress in your sessions, and their judgment is what has been keeping you restricted to this floor of the castle. Remember, you're still alive. Like everyone else that has been rescued from _that_ place over time, it's very . . . hard . . . to adjust to being free. Your mind was struggling under the effects of torture, and years of living in fear of your life, not to mention the fighting. You simply weren't safe to be around, not for yourself or for others."

Ginny nodded along with his words, and he knew that the Mind Healers had told her similar things before. The repetition changed little, but her arms returned to the their prior position of a tight self-embrace.

Percy tried hard to ignore the slight tremor in a muscle on her neck. "We cannot simply return and fight a grand battle to reclaim our homes, Ginny. We can't even go back to spy on them. Voldemort's servants have found a way to create a drug that acts much like the Imperius, and they have had it introduced into the Muggle food supplies. That's why whenever the resistance would stage raids, any Muggles would immediately report the presence of strangers in the area. They have no will of their own anymore, they're useful only as highly trained monkeys for his Empire. When you add that to their surveillance systems that literally blanket the land, well, these were part of the reason behind the resistance almost always losing."

Ginny waved one hand, dismissing casually all of the things he knew she was aware of. "Percy, the whole world would just have to stand up and occupy the place. Why can't we just do that?"

"You can't just take over entire regions. Let's start with the first step. Each place has to have it's monitoring network severed, and almost simultaneously that region _must _be placed under an area-wide Fidelius. Once it's isolated, only the people inside are a serious danger – any military members or Empire Magicians. The rest are merely hostages to the few we must defeat. Second . . . let me ask it this way. You've heard of the Hebrides?"

Ginny looked a bit puzzled, but she slowly nodded her head anyway. "Of course. You were with us on the mission to try to reach the Outer Hebrides, remember? There was nothing there, it's just a myth."

They had desperately been looking for a new place for the resistance to be located. The thought was getting away from the mainland, with the ever-increasing observation cameras and magical scrying posts make it too dangerous to even get food for the safe areas. They had sent a team out to explore the vast Hebrides islands, hoping to find some place they could set up a quasi-permanent base. There had been nothing there – no islands, no boats, nothing. It was as if the common lore and suggestions of maps that _something_ should be there were like the lost city of Atlantis, merely legend.

"Yes," Percy replied with a sigh, "you still think they're a myth – they're actually the first territory that the ICW reclaimed by this method of 'subdivide and Fidelius hide.' They discovered that the mind-control compounds in the food of the Empire are a very complex mixture of potions and drugs that double as a poison when they are no longer consumed. Most of the population died before they could work out the problem. It's a marvel that only a true Potions Master prodigy could have created."

"So . . . they found a cure? For the people living in the Hebrides?"

"Yes and no." Percy paused to study the table top at length. "It's very hard to make the complete cure, and takes a long time to purge from the bodies of the people in an area. That's why it took years to reclaim the Hebrides. They've been working on a new solution, leaving the poison in place but removing the mind-control aspects, and the rumor is that it's finally ready and in sufficient quantity to be useful. As long as everyone keeps eating their normal fare, they'll live – but they'll at least be able to think for themselves again."

Ginny remained silent for a time. He looked up when her hand took his, gently but firmly closing her small fingers around his. "So is that where we are now? The Hebrides?"

"No, no, far from it," he offered with a faint smile. "It's far too warm for there. We're somewhere in the Carribean, but I don't know precisely the location."

Ginny squeezed his hand briefly, then released it and stood up. She strode back to the giant window she spent so much of her time in, and resumed her perch while keeping her eyes on the vista beyond. He knew she would not be happy to hear about how idle everyone was relative to what she thought they should be doing, but there were so many problems that with his months of freedom he had only just barely begun to understand the tapestry outside of his former life. Her voice brought his focus back to the here and now, however. "So we're supposed to just sit back and nibble our way across Britain? Everyone will be dead by then!"

"We really have very little choice. We can't exactly reach the resistance. You know they live under Fidelius as well, constantly moving and changing Secret Keepers. It's the only reason the resistance is still functioning at all."

Ginny shot up again, her face flushed and her anger once more at the front. He could see her shaking slightly in her fury, but he understood it perfectly. He had been saying similar things when he had been in her shoes. Her voice, unlike her face, was like ice. "But Ron is back there! And Hermione, and Kingsley, and--"

"I know, and I'm sorry," he offered with his hands held up, palm out. "I'm just the messenger, remember? There's a reason they work the way they do right now. They've broken into the Empire's communications system, Ginny. That's how we know when to rescue people. We can't go too early, as the Empire Inquisitors conduct the interrogations. But as soon as they leave, we rescue everyone we can. We're just not able to spare anyone the horror of the interrogation, or else the Empire would start taking more notice to what's going on. They think the resistance keeps rescuing people, and have no idea we're even here. The bodies that are found are the ones we leave behind, the ones that don't survive the interrogations."

"Why does taking back our home have to be done so slowly, then? If they have this new cure thing?"

"Well, there are two problems. The first is that we have to completely secure each area we take back. That's going to be taking a tremendous amount of resources. We have to counter the brainwashing, the indoctrination, and make sure the people are safe – they aren't Empire agents in disguise, or Empire sympathizers. The True Believers are fanatics, and they would risk anything to spread their beliefs to the rest of the world."

"What's the second, then?"

"Each area has to be covered inch by inch by a team of curse breakers. I don't know what they're looking for, but they take down every magical ward, every construct, everything they find or dig up or bring down from the sky. They've dismantled Fidelius properties, they've scoured caves and pits, and done things that just the stories of scare me. As I understand it, until each area is finished and approved, we're not going to be allowed to take the next one."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Percy shrugged, for this is one question he had been asking ever since he had found out the procedure. No one, absolutely no one could or would tell him why. It was incredibly frustrating. "All I know is that I now work for Sirius Black, he's the head of the information gathering network. I interview all the survivors to find out what we don't know, or what's changed. It's very dangerous to go directly into the Empire for any reason at all, so it's our first line of preparation."

"So who will I work for?"

"Well, you'll probably be given a choice. Every survivor is offered a new home in a new nation, a large compensation package, and freedom. You don't have to do anything at all anymore. But you should know that the Statute of Secrecy is over. The Muggles know all about magic now." That had surprised him when he found out about it, but in hindsight, Voldemort had already torn down that barrier inside of his home. Why should he be surprised that the rest of the world did the same? Particularly when threatened by such evils as the Empire might unleash?

"What's the choice? Freedom or what?"

"Given that you were a top strike team member and excellent fighter, they'll probably offer to let you join the magical military combat forces. You'd probably end up working somewhere in Remus Lupin's group, he's laying out the groundwork for how to take back Scotland."

"So . . . Black and Lupin? They're the ones calling the shots?"

"Ah, no. Not really." Percy offered a wan smile, knowing how much she would hate what he was about to tell her. "The ICW is running things, but the delegations of power and hierarchies of power are rather hard to work out."

"Fucking politicians." She was almost hissing and spitting in her disgust at what he knew she would hate. The politicians of the Ministry had at first been in denial, then they tried to compromise, then they tried to react, but it was too late – they were already dead. "I can't take freedom. Not when all I can see are mum and dad, or Bill, or all the others. But I almost can't stand the idea of being told by some moron what to do."

"For the most part. Not always."

Her head spun around to lock gazes with him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, as just one example that doesn't follow the pattern, there's a modest sized group that is very secretive based out of this facility. I have no idea what they do, but they seem to be able to tell _anyone_ else to change what they're doing for some reason – and can tell the ICW to bugger off. They seem to be a mix of curse breakers, fighters, and information analysts. But those are some of the most ferocious wizards and witches I've ever heard of – they make the standard fighting groups look like a group of half-trained adolescents."

He knew that her interest would be captivated by the idea of being able to both do something and tell others to get out of her way. She never had much patience for jumping through hoops when she could see the objective in her own mind. "How do you get into that group?"

"I've heard it's by invitation only."

"So? Who do I need to impress, who runs that group?"

"Harry Potter."

* * *

**_A/N:_**__

No betas were used in this work. This entire arc thread is very low priority, so any expectation of updates should be correspondingly low.


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